


From Where the Dragons Came

by BlueDragon3927



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dol Guldur, Dragon Riders, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-08 00:10:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueDragon3927/pseuds/BlueDragon3927
Summary: Gathering strength for another war against the free peoples of Middle Earth, Sauron plots to gain a weapon not even the canniest of the Maiar would be expecting. Things do not go to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

Deep in the dark, crumbling depths of Dol Guldur, the wraith currently known as the Necromancer plotted. It had been nearly three thousand years since the great being of darkness had been reduced to his current state, his greatest source of power stolen by a worthless, puny mortal. It had taken centuries for him to gather enough strength to become anything more than the meanest and most wretched of spirits, millennia of careful plans and manipulations to regain even the smallest fraction of his former might. But now, finally, he was prepared to move against the free peoples of Middle Earth once more. Soon he could do away with his disguise of a mere necromancer, and the world would tremble before the Dark Lord Sauron once more.

All around the fortress terrible armies were preparing themselves for war. The baying of war wargs and the shrieks of goblins echoed up to the necromancer’s place atop the tallest tower. The air was thick with the scent of blood, rot, and decay. Dark magic hung about like a fog, and what little light managed to reach the ground was weak and washed out like the color in the eyes of a cold corpse. Occasionally the light glinted off of many-faceted eyes peering out from the shadowed boughs of the sick, corrupted forest.

Though the sight below pleased the necromancer immensely, he turned away without a second thought, for he had a far greater plot brewing. Within what was once the main hall a ritual circle had been prepared. A shadowed figure silently bowed its head as its lord approached. This was one of the necromancer’s nine most terrible servants, and one of few he would trust with the knowledge of this dark and powerful spell.

The circle itself had been painted with a potent mixture of blood and magically charged uranium powder. The ground within was covered in thousands of runes in the Black Speech, spelling out the intent of summoning and binding. Laid out on a stone table just outside the circle were the materials needed for the second part of the ritual, including an enchanted athame, a large collection of potions and rune-carved medallions, and most importantly a fist sized ruby drizzled with molten gold.

A hundred and seventy-five years earlier, the necromancer had made a deal with Smaug. Knowing well the firedrake’s lust of gold and hatred of dwarves, he had offered to aid Smaug in his quest to take Erebor as his own. Although Thror had fallen to goldsickness long before his interference, it was the necromancer’s dark whispers that escalated it from simple greed to true madness. With the dwarf king’s madness came paranoia, and all the treasure in the mountain was conveniently gathered into one place for safekeeping even as the guard force was weakened and torn apart in fear of betrayal. Where the mountain could have once posed a challenge, it fell easily to dragon fire after four years of it’s own king crumbling it from within. In exchange for this help, Smaug had given the necromancer a copy of his magical imprint.

One common misconception was that Morgoth himself had created dragons. Morgoth had never created anything in his entire existence. He stole and twisted and corrupted, he defiled the greatest wonders and strengthened the smallest evils until they held the power to destroy nations. However, the idea of Morgoth making anything from nothing was akin to the idea of garden worms taking flight to twist and burrow through the air; it was completely against his nature. Much like how he had created orcs out of elves, the terrible, twisted creatures known as dragons had also began as something more benign. The trick of it was that there were no natural dragons in Middle Earth.

Luckily for the necromancer, the dark Vala had given his apprentice knowledge on tearing holes between realities.

Even at the height of his power, the necromancer had not been anywhere near as powerful as his master. He was incapable of taking a creature and twisting its mind and form to suit his own desires, which is why he needed the imprint from Smaug. He would use the pattern of Morgoth’s work to twist another dragon into a near identical copy of what Smaug was when he was first created.

The necromancer felt a small twinge of disappointment as he filtered through the memories his master had given him of the dragon world. There were hundreds of diverse species, each with it’s own possibilities of destruction and terror. Unfortunately, he could only copy what he had, so he pushed down his desire to discover new ways to destroy and terrorize his enemies and reached out for a specimen of the same breed from which Smaug had been formed.

Moving to the edge of the blood circle, the necromancer began to chant. The black language tore like knives through the air and the very earth trembled as he cast his magic out between the worlds. Locating an acceptable beast, he latched on with dark ropes of power and ran the connection through the ritual circle. He could feel the resistance as the creature fought against the bindings. It was more than he had been expecting, but the necromancer was pleased. He hoped the beast kept some of it’s violent rage for when he unleashed it on the free peoples.

Had the necromancer possessed a physical form, he would have smiled as the portal opened and he felt his new weapon get dragged through.

“HOOKFAAAAAANG!!!”

The panicked scream came from a stocky, helmeted man who was currently plunging out of the sky towards the sea below. A shadow fell over him as a large form plummeted down after him claws first. The form reached him just before he hit the water and extended a pair of fire-red wings in an attempt to slow their decent. It almost worked, and the two skipped across the surface of the sea once, twice, three times before the dragon managed to pull them back into the sky with a triumphant roar.

“Cutting it a little close there, Fangster,” the man complained as he clung to the dragon’s claws for dear life.

“Oh, no! Did Stormfly drop you?” a woman asked mockingly from where she hovered nearby on her own dragon. This one was blue and yellow, and vaguely shaped like a particularly spiky bird. “I’m sure it was an accident,” she said, insincerity present in every inch of her face.

“There will be repercussions for this,” the man swore as he awkwardly scrambled onto his dragon’s snake-like neck. “Repercussions!”

“Ha,” she said, leaning forward in her saddle and grinning challengingly at her somewhat damp companion. “I’d like to see you try.” The woman and her dragon easily dodged the answering fireball and took off towards the nearby sea stacks, the red dragon and his disgruntled rider following.

Partially hidden in the clouds above, seated on a dragon as black as night, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third smiled at his friends’ antics. The past couple of years had been filled with constant battle against the dragon hunters. Between training, missions, managing supplies, aiding allies, gathering information, and all the other tasks both large and small that come with a war, it had been a long time since the riders were able to truly relax and have fun. But now, with traitor Johan dead, Krogan gone to parts unknown, and the dragon hunters scattered without a leader, the gang was finally able to simply be.

On the island below Hiccup could see his friend Fishlegs writing in a large notebook. Fishlegs had initially come on this journey with the hope of gaining new dragon knowledge. While the riders had discovered many new dragon species since they had ventured into the great beyond, the constant chaos of their daily lives had prevented the studious Viking from properly organizing and chronicling everything. He was taking advantage of the relative peace to condense piles of scrawled notes and quick drawings into an actual book.

As Hiccup watched, Fishlegs’ charcoal broke, and he turned to call out in the direction of his hut. A small dragon, barely longer than his forearm flew out and hovered over Fishlegs inquisitively. He showed her the broken charcoal, and she dashed back into the hut with a happy warble. At the sound the rock-like mass Fishlegs had been leaning against shifted and rumbled inquisitively, revealing itself to be yet another dragon. The Viking patted her gently and grabbed a stone from a nearby pile to toss into her mouth.

The shouting from the sea stacks grew louder, and Hiccup watched as his cousin and his girlfriend flew out of the natural maze toward the island. At some point the tables had turned, as it was now Snotlout on his scarlet dragon Hookfang being chased by Stormfly and her violent and beautiful rider Astrid. The twins Ruffnut and Tuffnut, never a pair to be left out of anything involving violence, chaos, or tormenting their friends, ran for their own two headed dragon as they noticed the aerial chase. Whooping in reckless delight, they flew into the middle of the action. Snotlout and Astrid both yelled in outrage as they were pelted with bags of brightly colored paint. Hiccup let out a sigh of both amusement and exasperation when he realized they had raided the weapons shed for the harmless projectiles the riders often used in combat training.

As Astrid and Snotlout quickly formed a temporary alliance to handle the twins, Hiccup prepared himself to go break up the mock fight. Then he realized that he didn’t have to. What did it matter if time and training resources were being wasted, they were no longer at war. With that in mind, he turned his attention to the large trough of water he kept outside of the forge. He felt a smirk spread across his face, and turned to look into one of the green eyes of the dragon below him.

“What do you think bud?” Hiccup asked. The black dragon warbled mischievously before slipping into a dive. Hiccup easily shifted his foot to move the prosthetic tailfin into the best position.

A few dozen feet above the top of the forge, the dragon suddenly jerked to a stop, every muscle going stiff. “Toothless?” Hiccup asked, hand drifting to the hilt of his sword as his playful, carefree mood draining from him like water from a sieve. Toothless had been his constant and most faithful companion for more than half a decade, and he could read the dragon’s mood as easily as his own. “What’s wrong?”

Behind them, the shouting of the others had stopped as they all reacted to the sudden wariness of their dragons. Fishlegs barely managed to keep from falling over as his stone-like dragon Meatlug jumped to her feet, an uncharacteristically menacing snarl escaping her throat. The small green dragon he’d sent to get more charcoal zoomed out of his hut with a terrified shriek, slamming into his chest and huddling against his neck. As Toothless spun around to face the others, a small whimper came from the specially made saddlebag for messenger dragons. A horned, orange head peeked out, fear in its eyes, before disappearing into the depths of the saddlebag.

His airborne friends were hovering, scanning the horizon in worried confusion, weapons in hand. They didn’t notice the ripple in the air, much like a heatwave, growing directly below them. As Hiccup watched a tendril of black something, more the absence of light than any physical thing, formed amid the strange warp in reality.

“Snotlout!” Hiccup yelled in warning as the tendril lashed out at his cousin. Having fought side by side with Hiccup for years, Snotlout urged Hookfang into a doge without a second thought, despite having no idea what the danger was. The tendril shot past them before curving around for a second pass. Snotlout screamed when he realized what was attacking him and his dragon, and Hookfang twisted to avoid the thing’s second attempt. The strange haze continued to grow, and two more tendrils began to form. The twins dived, one of their dragon’s heads, Barf, spewing a thick green gas that hid the ripple from view. Tuffnut shouted something to his head, Belch, and the green cloud exploded.

Unfortunately, once the fire and smoke began to clear it was obvious that the explosion had done absolutely nothing to harm the thing. All three tendrils slammed out like whips after Hookfang once more. He dodged over the first, and a shout from Snotlout had him tucking in a wing and twisting away from the second, but the loss of control made it impossible to avoid the third. Astrid tried to stop it, urging Stormfly beneath as she swung her ax in a high arc above her head, but the blow barely moved the tendril an inch. Astrid’s ax, on the other hand, was cleaved halfway through, and she had to drop it to the sea below to keep from being wrenched out of the saddle.

The dark tendril wrapped around the dragon’s leg, and Hookfang screamed. Toothless dived towards the captured dragon and slipped into a barrel roll, lighting off multiple plasma blasts as the air shrieked from their speed. The blasts slammed into the tendril, exploding with the Night Fury’s whole power rather than the watered-down versions he often used in fights against humans or even other dragons. Although the tendril seemed to weaken slightly, and shook like a plucked bow string, it held fast. The two less successful tendrils quickly merged with it, leaving it stronger than ever.

“Hookfang! Come on Hooky, come on!” Snotlout was laying down over the saddle, his arms wrapped around his dragon’s neck, desperately trying to comfort him as he continued to shriek in agony. The dark tendrils stretched higher, making their way up toward the dragon’s torso, and Hookfang lit himself on fire. He was too lost in the pain to keep his flames from spreading over his head and neck to protect his rider, but for once Snotlout didn’t complain, only jerking back to the relative safety of the saddle and continuing to babble supportive nonsense.

The combination of gravity and the pulling of the tendrils meant that Hookfang was rapidly approaching the source of the tendrils, which was beginning to resemble a swirling whirlpool of darkness.

“It’s trying to pull them in!” Fishlegs shouted. He had arrived on Meatlug holding the great warhammer he had won off of dragon hunters the day they sank an island. However, with Astrid having proven conventional weapons useless against this attack, he was hovering anxiously with no idea what to do to help.

Half mad from the pain, Hookfang was barely able to flap his wings, and would have already collapsed if it would not have brought about his rider’s death along with his own. Seeing this, Hiccup urged Toothless down to hover directly over Hookfang’s back. Toothless’ own scaled hide protected him from the worst of Hookfang’s fire coat, so the black dragon grabbed hold of the larger dragon and offered his own strength. The addition of the might of a Night Fury managed to slow Hookfang’s decent, even as he went limp from the pain, only his constant shrieks proving he was still conscious.

For a moment they hung there, neither side gaining an inch. Then the darkness pulsed, and the power of its pull increased tenfold. Hookfang’s screams took on a higher pitch, and both Hiccup and Snotlout yelled in startled horror. Toothless angled his body upward and poured all his strength into keeping Hookfang from the nightmarish wrongness below. Fishlegs and Astrid swooped in, and Meatlug and Stormfly each grabbed one of Hookfang’s wings and pulled up. At some point the twins had disappeared.

“Come on, come on!” Hiccup yelled, gripping the saddle with white knuckles as they fought against the darkness. Toothless’ wingbeats were coming fast and strong enough that each downstroke ended with a boom of displaced air. His mouth was wide open, and his ribs heaved from his desperate pants. Not even breaking the sound barrier while climbing strait up had caused the dragon this much strain, and Stormfly and Meatlug were not in much better shape.

Hiccup heard a small determined shriek and looked up to see the pale dragon Smidvarg approaching. The vast majority of the Night Terror dragons, being no larger than cats, were huddled in the safety of the woods. However, a couple dozen of the bravest or most foolhardy of the dark dragons were following their leader towards the strange battle. They grabbed Hookfang’s horns, his claws and the edge of his wings, and added the strength of their small bodies to the struggle.

Even then, the dark tendrils were only slowed, and continued to pull inescapably downwards.

Hiccup was close enough to see the moment realization filled Snotlout’s eyes. There was no stopping this. The only way for Snotlout to ensure his own survival was to jump to one of the other dragons. Hiccup watched horror, then fear, then resignation flash across his face. He reached through the fire to quickly run his hand along Hookfang’s scales, then turned to Hiccup.

“Go,” he said, knuckles white where he was gripping one of Hookfang’s horns between the Night Terrors.

“Never,” Hiccup replied, and the dragon’s must have understood as well, for they reached for some hidden reservoir of strength and flapped even harder through their exhaustion.

They were mere feet above the whirlpool of darkness when a green and yellow blur swooped in and planted itself underneath the red dragon. A twin on their dragon’s neck rose on either side of Hookfang’s head.

“We’re ready to go!” Tuffnut called, and although Hiccup could hear steely determination beneath the cheerfulness in that unexpected and baffling statement, none of his own fear or horror were present.

“See you in Valhalla!” Ruffnut screamed, and then they were all sucked down into the whirlpool of swirling darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The necromancer watched as the swirling black portal opened above the ritual circle. He could hear the desperate shrieks of agony filtering in through the tear in reality. His servant took up the ritual dagger, ready to begin work immediately. Among other preparations, more than a hundred runes would need to be carved into the dragon’s hide before the transformation could begin, and it would not do to have the beast die from pain because they took too long to finish.

Suddenly, the resistance against the necromancer’s magic increased greatly. He turned his attention away from the Nazgûl to focus on pulling the weapon through from the dragon world. He poured more power into the bindings and felt them continue to drag themselves and their prize in. Although there was still significantly more resistance than expected, he was not called the Terrible Dread for nothing, and much like dread and terror once his influence took root it was nearly impossible to escape. With a final heave of power the bindings pulled the rest of the way through the portal, the swirling black rift disappearing shortly afterward. As the bindings pulled taut smaller tendrils of power leapt from certain runes, ready to place the firedrake in the correct position for the ritual to begin.

They failed.

The necromancer abruptly pulled his attention from the magical workings and back into the physical world. While the target creature was within the circle, the necromancer was shocked to realize it was not the only thing there. The reason the bindings failed to pull the beast flush against the stone revealed itself to be another dragon, green and yellow and two-headed, standing beneath the weapon and keeping it from reaching the ground. It was covered in an odd assortment of cloth, leather, and metal, and one of the race of men sat on each of it’s necks.

The large binding still wrapped around the legs and belly of the red target beast, and the smaller bindings had successfully captured it’s wings and tail. The green dragon was moaning and trembling from the pain where the ropes of dark magic cut into it’s hide, but it’s legs still refused to buckle under the strain. There was another man atop the red dragon, sobbing and wailing as he wrestled with the piece of magic meant to hold the beast’s jaws shut. A half dozen other winged creatures, surely too small to be dragons, tried to help him, shrieking in pain whenever their scales came in contact with the black power. The necromancer motioned to his shadowed servant, and the Nazgûl moved to deal with the complications.

The rider of the green beast’s right head quickly took stock of the situation. “I think we need to destroy the creepy magic circle,” he yelled as he stuffed a bird into one of many saddle bags and pulled a sword out of another. He threw the sword up into the air in the general direction of the advancing Nazgûl.

So focused upon the men and dragons within the circle was the necromancer that he had failed to notice three more of the beasts hovering above their heads. One, blue and bird-shaped, swooped down towards the Nazgûl, its rider screaming in rage as she caught the airborne sword. Another slammed down into the circle and began to use its mace-like tail to break up the stone beneath the blood runes. A large man on it’s back used a hammer to the same effect. The third dragon, this one black as night, had turned its attention to the necromancer.

This was the same type of dragon Morgoth had used to create Ancalagon! Sauron’s disguise as the necromancer cracked, and some of his true power shone through. Under the gaze of his great fiery eye the dragon reared back, pupils narrowed to slits, hissing through its teeth like any cornered animal. The black beast’s rider went stiff with fear, eyes widening an impossible amount and knuckles going white where he griped the saddle. However, unlike most men he did not completely loose himself in terror at the sight of the dark lord and managed to force half a sentence through frozen lips.

“Plasma blast,” he whispered, and his dragon responded. While the ritual was designed to suppress the fire of its subject until firmly under the control of its new master, it did nothing to contain the unbound and unexpected additions. As such the glowing purple ball flew unimpeded at the dark lord. It was unexpectedly not fire, and although it did nothing to harm Sauron it did push him back a few feet and stop him from reinforcing the bindings.

The woman with the sword had dismounted and was harrying the Nazgûl from the side while her blue beast drove it back with white hot flames. A cloud of small dark creatures was flying around the Nazgûl’s head, darting in as a distraction whenever the woman would go on the offensive. Crushing one of the flying creatures in an armored fist, the Nazgûl lashed out with his blade. The woman dodged too slow and screamed in pain, but continued to fight.

The lumpy brown dragon and its rider had done a significant amount of damage to the floor of the great hall. One of the weapon’s wings was completely free, and tendril meant to contain the head was no longer fighting against the red dragon’s rider.

“Barf,” the rider of the green dragon’s left head yelled, and the head began to breath thick green smoke.

Another ball of purple light impacted with the base of the first bindings, leaving a deep divot in the stone and causing the most powerful of the bonds to crumble. The black dragon swooped in to grab its half-freed fellow as its rider ordered everyone to the sky. The two headed dragon spread its wings and helped push up against the remaining bonds, still spewing green smoke. With a final swing of her sword, the woman fighting the Nazgûl leapt back and hopped onto her dragon. The birdlike dragon breathed a last burst of white hot fire, allowing the smaller creatures to collect their dead, before the entire lot fled into the air. The brown lumpy beast flapped its tiny wings and headed up towards its fellows.

The bonds stretched upwards as the group passed through a hole in the roof. Having gotten his immense power back under control, the necromancer moved back to the damaged circle and sent power into the bindings once more. The group of dragons was yanked to a halt.

“Now Belch!” called one of the riders of the green dragon as the necromancer began to reel the flock back in. The head he was sitting on spat sparks down into the dense cloud of green gas, and the chamber exploded. The blast was even more powerful than the traitorous Maia’s experiments with black powder. The outermost wall, already structurally unsound from years of neglect, collapsed. The ritual circle was too damaged to continue channeling power. With the failure of the bindings the group of men and dragons were able to make their escape, dodging chunks of falling ceiling as they went.

Due to the missing wall, the necromancer could easily watch them make their escape. The black dragon carried the limp form of the weapon in its claws. The lumpy brown dragon was supporting the injured and overburdened green drake. The blue beast was circling the group, protecting them from the legion of dark bats with its sparkling fire. Heading Northwest, they swiftly made their way out of Mirkwood and his reach.

The necromancer screamed in rage.

Bilbo Baggins sat on the front step of Beorn’s house, smoking a pipe of Longbottom leaf and enjoying the peace and quiet. He had not been able to simply sit and enjoy a good smoke since Rivendell, and even then, the last Homely House had been more graceful and majestic than truly homely in the humble opinion of a hobbit.

It had been a truly hectic few days. Bilbo had though he had experienced some truly terrifying things in the few months since he had taken up with a company of dwarves. From ponies to trolls to orcs, the hobbit felt it had been a proper, or perhaps improper, adventure.

However, the hardships found on the road before were nothing compared to what the company encountered once they entered the Misty Mountains. First they had nearly been crushed by stone giants in a thunder battle. The giants had stood as tall as the mountains as they fought against each other, ignorant and uncaring of the small creatures clinging to the path on their knees. It had been like something out of a legend of old, and certainly no place for dwarves let alone a hobbit, even a half-Took like Bilbo. He’d very nearly fallen to his death, and it was only Thorin’s timely intervention that prevented him from splattering upon the rocks below like an egg fallen from its nest.

Then, once they thought themselves safe, the floor of the cave the company had taken shelter in opened and dumped the lot of them into the goblin kingdom. While Bilbo had been lucky enough to avoid an audience with the goblin king, he wasn’t sure his own fate had been much better. He’d fallen down into the depths where not even goblins dared to tread, and had met a most terrible creature. His hand unconsciously went to the curious little ring in his pocket as his thoughts took a dark turn. The thing had been pale and filthy, it’s hair lank, it’s bulging eyes cruel, it’s rotting teeth coming to broken points. It had challenged him to a game, riddles in the dark, and had he lost it would have devoured him. He wondered if it would have even bothered to kill him before tearing into …

He was broken from his morbid thoughts by playful yelling from a nearby garden. He pulled his hand from his pocket to shade his eyes from the sun. Fíli and Kíli were being chased through the oversized flowers by Bofur. Bilbo was shocked to see him without his hat but was quick to notice the scruffy thing perched crookedly on Kíli’s head. He chuckled in fond exasperation at the dwarves who were quickly becoming some of his dearest friends.

Mood significantly lighter than it had been a few moments earlier, Bilbo returned to his pipe and his contemplations. He had successfully escaped the tunnels after all. Naturally, they had barely stepped away from the mountains before they were set upon by orcs. And not just any orcs either, no, that would’ve been too easy. This had been an organized war band of warg riders, led by none other than Azog the Defiler. It had been terrifying for Bilbo, having only heard stories of the pale orc. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it must have been for those who had fought him before.

Somewhere between orcs, fire, and dangling off the side of a cliff, Bilbo had found his courage. Despite their many disagreements, when it seemed as if the dwarf king would die Bilbo was unable to stay in the dubious safety of the half-toppled tree. He did not know where he got the strength, but he had slain the orc about to remove Thorin’s head. Although he surely would have found his own death soon after had the Great Eagles not arrived in the nick of time to save them all, Bilbo knew that he was a changed hobbit. Proper hobbits did not run outnumbered into battle or challenge orcish warlords. Any respectability he may have still retained after running out his door after the company was now well and truly gone.

However, just because he was no longer a proper hobbit (and well and truly a Took if any of his kin were willing to claim him as a hobbit at all) didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy a good smoke in a beautiful garden. The sun was shining, warm and bright, chasing away the lingering darkness of the goblin tunnels. The stalks of great sunflowers swayed in the gentle wind. The soft buzzing of bees and cheerful singing of birds settled over the sound of gruff dwarfish laughter.

He heard a shout of outrage in a higher pitch than usual for the stone children and knew Bofur and the princes must have interrupted Ori at his scribing. He exchanged an amused look with Nori. The red-haired thief was perched in a tree, although Bilbo was unsure whether he was hiding from his eldest brother Dori, Dwalin the guardsman, or if he just preferred to relax in high places.

Peace, friends, and a good garden. What more could a hobbit ask for? Bilbo firmly put aside all thoughts of previous or future perils, fire-breathing dragons included, and settled in to enjoy the moment.

Of course, that was when a strange, lumpy something flew out of Mirkwood. Whatever it was had been moving barely above the tree line, and now it was moving erratically over the plains in their general direction. A great, echoing roar spread over the land, and the thing landed on the other side of a hill that was rather too close for comfort. Bilbo shot a wild look at Nori, hopping this was some kind of normal occurrence for travelers that a sheltered gentlehobbit wouldn’t know about. Unfortunately, Nori looked just as panicked and confused as Bilbo himself.

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo muttered.

Bilbo heard something clatter against the wooden deck behind him. He turned to see Balin sitting in the giant doorway, having apparently been enjoying a smoke like Bilbo. The clatter had been his pipe hitting the ground, having fallen from slack fingers. The old dwarf had gone white, and his hands were shaking.

“Dragon,” Balin whispered, horror in his eyes.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo said again, and heroically shoved down the rather strong urge to faint.

Balin shook himself out of his frozen state. “Dragon!” he shouted, lunging for his sword. The other dwarves came running, shouting in panic and yanking on armor.

“I heard the roar,” Thorin announced. Bilbo could see the fear in his eyes, but it was well hidden under his attitude of majestic kingliness. “Did you see where it went?”

“It landed just behind that there hill,” Nori said, scrambling awkwardly down the tree. As soon as he was in reach Dori grabbed him and pulled him tight against his side. For once Nori didn’t object to his brother’s fussing.

Gandalf dashed around the side of the house. He had Glamdring at his waist and his staff in hand. His face was drawn into tense lines, and his many years showed in his eyes.

“Thrakun!” Thorin called. “What would a dragon be doing this far South?”

Thorin was doing a much, much better job of hiding his panic than poor Bilbo, who was on the verge of hyperventilating. The rest of the company wasn’t much better. The Ri brothers were huddled together, clutching onto whatever part of each other they could reach. Bifur was yelling in rapid Khuzdul, gestures wild and eyes wilder. Bofur, who had at some point regained his hat, was doing his best to calm his cousin down despite the edge of hysteria in his own voice. Bombur was leaning against the side of Beorn’s house, looking very green.

Balin and Óin were both clearly struggling with bad memories. Balin was white as a sheet, hands shaking slightly around the hilt of his sword. Óin was crushing his ear horn from the tight grip he had on it as he rambled off recipes for every burn medicine he knew. Dwalin and Glóin both had their axes in hand; Dwalin was staring still and stone-faced in the direction of the beast while Glóin paced and bellowed threats. Fíli and Kíli were huddled close to their uncle. Kíli had his bow out and his head was on a swivel as he scanned the sky for threats. One of Fíli’s arms was wrapped around his brother, holding him tight against his chest, and his free hand held one of his many short-swords.

Thorin’s commanding bellow managed to pull the group part of the way out of their panic. He was their king, and more importantly he was a war general. He had led armies against desperate odds, and just as when he’d earned the name Oakenshield, his steely determination was able to rally his people.

Nori shook off his brothers enough to turn to Thorin. “It wasn’t commin’ from the North,” he said, voice shaky but determined. “It came over towards us from Mirkwood, but it was also headin’ up from the South.”

Gandalf was standing in front of him in a few quick strides. “You are sure?” the wizard demanded, looming over the trio. It was obvious to Bilbo that Gandalf’s looming was doing nothing to help the hysterical Ori calm down, and the combination of dragon-induced stress and Gandalf’s intimidation of his brothers was about to set Dori off.

“I saw it too,” Bilbo cut in. Gandalf spun around to face the Hobbit. “It was heading Northwest, and flying really low to the trees. I couldn’t make out any details, but it was shaped strangely. Not how I’d imagined a dragon at all!”

“What is it, Wizard?” Thorin asked, knowing there must be a reason Gandalf was focusing on the direction the thing was moving rather than the fact that there was a dragon here in the first place.

“Dol Guldur,” Gandalf said. “The Hill of Dark Sorcery. There have been rumors that I hoped were false, but now I fear…”

“Movement,” Dwalin interrupted tensely. All heads snapped in the direction of the presumed dragon. Two blurs moved North, putting distance between them and Beorn’s house. One was a shadow, the other a mere shimmer against the blue sky. They were quickly out of sight in the hilly plains.

“Too small to be the dragon,” Balin said. Everyone let out a breath of relief but remained even more wary and on guard then before.

“We need to move,” Thorin said. “If we confront the beast now, we may be able to stop whatever vile plans it has.”

Bilbo felt even more faint than before. However, when the rest of the company nodded solemnly, he gulped down his fear and wrapped a hand around his little sword. Gandalf raised his arm to flag down a bird. He asked it to warn its master of the dragon, and the bird headed West, towards where Beorn had gone hunting orcs.

The company headed out at a trot. They stuck to the shallow valleys as often as they could, and crouched down to hide in the tall grass when they had to sprint across the open hills. Bilbo wasn’t sure how long it took them to reach the dragon’s resting place, but he was winded when they halted, and it was long enough for the company to stew in their nerves. Everyone was tense as a bowstring as they slowly crawled up the hill, and Bilbo feared the loud beating of his heart would give them away.

Bilbo was shocked at the sight that met them. There was a dragon in the valley, although it was smaller than he expected. It was dripping blood, laying prone in the grass. One of its wings was draped over the top of a midsized boulder. There were men there as well, four of them, wearing strange helmets and clothing that was almost dwarfish in appearance. One of them was slumped against the dragon’s head, obviously injured. He let out a cry of pain as his companion tended to his wounds. The second man was larger, taller than Gandalf and broad in the shoulder. He was kneeling beside his wounded comrade, face tear-stained and movements frantic as he tried to wash away the blood.

The two remaining men wore matching helmets. One was fiddling with the propped-up wing. The other let out a triumphant cry from their half-hidden position in the tall grass, holding up a bundle of bandages. Bilbo and the dwarves all exchanged wide-eyed looks. Had these men managed to slay the beast? They all relaxed slightly.

The lean man who had been standing by the wing had dashed over to his fellow. Taking the bandages he split the pile, giving half to the larger man before returning to the boulder. He pressed the bundle against a deep gash in the beast’s wing, and the dragon shifted slightly and growled in pain.

They were helping the dragon! Bilbo was frozen in shocked horror. The rest of the company had no such problem, spitting curses in both Westron and Khuzdul. Overtaken by rage, Gloin jumped to his feet and charged.

“Du bekar!” Glóin shouted as he ran down the hill. The rest of the company scrambled up to support him. The large man stood from his crouch and spun to stare at them in surprise. The surprise quickly turned to panic when he saw the ax-wielding dwarf charging him and the rest of the company at the top of the slope.

“Meatlug!” He yelled, darting sideways toward a stone warhammer. Suddenly, the boulder moved, the dragon yelping in pain from the shift, even though the man with the bandages tried to lower its wing gently to the ground. The boulder revealed itself to be another dragon as it planted itself between Glóin and its fellow. Unlike the wounded dragon, this beast did not match what expectations books and legends had given Bilbo. It was small and compact, a fat lumpy body sitting on four stubby legs. Its tail was a rounded bulge, its wings comically small, and Bilbo hysterically noticed that its ears matched the man’s helmet. Gloin was unable to stop his forward momentum. The dragon headbutted him back half a chain, and he rolled to a stop at the company’s feet.

Beorn arrived with a roar and lunged at the lumpy dragon. Taken by surprise, the beast fell onto its side under the great bear’s onslaught. Bilbo’s attention was jerked away from the fight by the sound of an explosion. Two more dragons had raised their snake-like necks above the high grass to send a fireball into the sky. The man with the hammer gave a dragon-like yell of anger and swung at Beorn’s side. The dragon managed to scramble to its feet while the bear was distracted and was quick to shove itself in front of the man, snarling threateningly at Beorn. Beorn snarled back and the two began to circle each other.

Thorin drew Orcrist, the blade glimmering steely silver rather than blue. “Khazad ai menu!” He bellowed, and the dwarves charged to aid their host. Bilbo gulped in fear as he drew his small sword and prepared to follow.

The entire company jerked to a halt as a half dozen spikes, each as long as Bilbo’s sword, slammed into the ground in front of them. There was a whistling shriek, and something purple exploded between Beorn and his opponent, sending the bear flying back. Two more dragons landed in the valley. One was the same shade of blue as the summer sky. It moved like a bird, and its tail was bristling with the same spikes embedded in the ground in front of the company. The other was black as night with a small, sleek body and large wings. Both had riders on their backs.

“Everybody calm down,” ordered the rider of the black dragon. He wore light leather armor, and had a shiny shield depicting his dragon strapped to his left arm. He slid easily off the beast and placed a bucket of water on the ground, then held out his right hand, palm out.

Beorn shifted into his human form. “You are trespassing on my lands, and you have brought creatures of darkness with you,” he said.

“Holy crap, that guy was a bear,” said the man who had been bandaging the injured dragon’s wing. He had grabbed a mace and moved to stand beside the hulking man with the hammer.

The black dragon’s rider was quick to shake off his shock. “We didn’t realize we were trespassing anywhere, and we’re sorry about that,” he said. “We can leave once our injured are safe to move.”

“And allow those beasts to spread their evil across the lands, I think not,” Thorin said, tightening his grip on Orcrist.

The shield-bearing man that Bilbo assumed to be their leader frowned. “Dragons aren’t evil,” he said. “Sure, they look scary, but if you gain a dragon’s trust you’ll never have a better or more loyal friend.”

Nori snorted. “Aye, and we’re supposed to take the word of a bunch of men consortin’ with dragons are we?”

“Oi,” said the one who had been sorting gear in outrage. “I’ll have you know I’m all woman.” She brandished her glaive angrily.

“I say we kill ‘em all before they have a chance to burn anything. Who knows what damage they’ve already done,” Gloin said.

“Over my dead body,” snarled the rider of the blue dragon. She slid out of the saddle, stumbling slightly when her right foot hit the ground. The leader glanced at her in concern, but she steadied herself on her dragon and brandished her sword, ignoring his look. She was rather beautiful, all long graceful limbs and braided golden hair. However, the way she held herself reminded Bilbo of no one so much as Dwalin, and he shuddered slightly at the threat in her eyes. The dwarves all hefted their weapons and prepared to attack.

“Enough of this,” Gandalf barked, stepping out in front of the company. “I know not whether you have been put under the dragon’s thrall or if you truly believe this foolishness, but I shall banish their darkness either way.” The wizard hefted his staff, and the crystal within it began to glow.

“Armorwing!” the leader shouted in warning, ducking his head behind his shield.

Gandalf slammed the staff against the ground, and a wave of light slammed into the dragons and their riders.

Snotlout Jorgenson was more terrified than he’d ever been in his life.

He was laying against Hookfang’s face, sobbing from the pain. Normally he would be embarrassed about the show of weakness, but it hurt so bad and it was all he could do not to start screaming. And if he started he knew he would never stop, he’d just scream and scream until he died.

This wasn’t like normal pain. Normal pain was awful, it hurt and it made it hard to move, but he could fight through it. Plus, it only really lasted at full strength for a few seconds, he’d get stabbed or shot or break a bone, but after the initial burst of agony the rest of it was healing pain or the sharp spikes of accidental movement or bumps.

This wasn’t like that. It was cold, so cold, colder than Glacier Island. And it wasn’t fading, if anything it was getting worse. It felt like knives tearing through his flesh, like the delicate little razor-sharp blades Fishlegs used to cut apart flowers, only made of ice, and they were tearing through the wounds again and again and again, slicing the exposed nerves and flesh, running across his chest and side and down his left arm and his hand…

There were needles too, tiny little shards of ice stabbing outward from the cuts. They throbbed, stabbing deeper with every beat of his heart, and it hurt so bad he could barely breath. His mind drifted to the horrible dark thing, the way he could feel its malice through the dark magic digging into his skin, but the cold stabbed into him at the thought. He forcefully shoved the memory down and tightened his grip on Hookfang’s nose-horn with a whimper.

He heard worried voices and felt hands on his face and in his hair. He forced his eyes to focus on his friends. Hiccup was leaning over him, holding his head up and trying to get his attention. Fishlegs was cutting his shirt off, and Astrid was examining his arm with poorly concealed horror in her eyes. Not wanting to look too closely at the wounds, he focused on Hiccup’s worried face.

“Hurts,” he sobbed. Hiccup’s face crumpled. His cousin pulled him against him in a cautious half-hug, careful not to touch the wounds. Snotlout could hear the three of them having a worried discussion over his head, something about medicine and supplies. Then he was being settled back down against Hookfang and Hiccup was pulling away.

He cried out at the loss of warmth, then whimpered in fear when he realized Hookfang wasn’t warm even though he should be hotter than any of them. He felt Astrid squeeze his good hand before she pulled herself to her feet to follow Hiccup. He could see that she was hurt, and usually he would call her out on it, but now he could barely think over the pain and cold.

His eyes landed on his saddlebag and he let go of Hookfang’s horn to reach for it, desperate to burn out the cold. His arm flopped over Hookfang’s head, but he was too weak to reach any further. He buried his face in his dragon’s too-cool scales with a sob. Hookfang let out a whimper, and Snotlout pet him as encouragingly as he could when he could barely see through his own agony. He felt Fishlegs gently pick up his injured hand and heard the splash of a water skin.

Then he screamed.

There was ice in his veins, in his bones. It felt like his blood was freezing, twisting into crystals under his skin. Cold was supposed to deaden pain, make it numb and kill the nerves, but it wasn’t, it was making it worse, stabbing and twisting through the bones in his hand.

“Cold,” he managed to gasp out, turning his head to look at Fishlegs. He was sure his arm would be frozen solid, run through with spikes like the Dragon King’s cave, but it wasn’t. The gashes were thick and deep, wrapped around the side of his hand and running up his arm. They were bleeding sluggishly, the blood too thick and too dark. A black stain was spreading over his skin outwards from the wounds.

Poison, his sluggish brain offered.

Hookfang was whimpering, trying to move to help his rider despite his own pain. Fishlegs was sobbing and whispering apologies, but he didn’t put the waterskin down and Snotlout knew he wasn’t going to stop. He clenched his teeth as hard as he could and fought to hold back his screams.

His head lolled back, and he saw that Tuffnut had propped one of Hookfang’s wings up on Meatlug’s back. He was horrified to see the same blackened wounds tearing through the wing. The fragile membranes of a dragon’s wings were usually very quick to heal. Now though, the deep rends were dripping black poison, and what if they couldn’t heal? What if Hookfang couldn’t fly anymore, and Snotlout died and wasn’t there to take care of him?

A wail managed to escape at the thought, and he turned to Fishlegs, ready to demand promises on Hookfang’s care despite being unable to talk without screaming. Then he heard a battle cry and saw the axes and armor and he panicked. There were angry Vikings and Hookfang was hurt, he couldn’t protect himself.

Snotlout lunged for where his mace was attached to the saddle and managed to wrap his fingers around the handle. The movement sent pain shooting through him and his spots danced across his eyes. He was too weak to pull the mace from its sheath. He whimpered, laying helplessly over his dragon’s head, unable to even shift enough to be a proper shield.

Then he heard the familiar sound of a plasma blast and allowed himself to go limp across Hookfang’s face. Hiccup and Astrid were back. He could hear loud arguments, and Hiccup using his future chief voice. Then more angry yelling. Then Hiccup shouted a command that he obeyed on instinct.

He shut his eyes tight and buried his face against Hookfang’s scales. Even half-mad with pain he knew better than to look into an Armorwing’s flame. He could see the faint glow through his eyelids right before his chest and arm exploded with a new kind of pain.

It burned like a brand. Hookfang jerked, and the movement made everything hurt worse. If there had been razors of ice before, now there was a red-hot poker tracing over the cuts. It felt like he was on fire, but fire was an old friend.

He squinted his eyes open and turned his head, careful to avoid looking directly into the source of the light. His blood was bubbling, but the black stains were fading from his skin. The unnatural cold was being burned away, and the burning soon lessened. He was still hurting when the heat faded away, but it was normal pain, and he let out a sigh of relief.

The light went out, and he was able to get a proper look at his arm. It was terrible, skin torn and muscles exposed. Snotlout had to fight down the urge to be sick when he saw a glint of bone. However, the poison was gone, and his blood was back to its usual vibrant red as it flowed freely over his fingers.

He was so relieved from the lack of poisonous cold that it took him a minute to realize just how much blood there was. His left hand was gloved in the stuff, and a small puddle was forming where it ran off of Hookfang’s scales and dripped to the ground. He tried to sit up, but the movement made him dizzy and he slumped back over his dragon’s snout. He needed to tell his friends, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and it was getting harder and harder to stay awake.

“Fish,” he managed to force out. He raised his hand a couple of inches as a blond-haired blur began to hurry towards him. “bl’d,” he slurred as the world slipped sideways and everything went dark.


End file.
